


Fellows In The Firmament

by revolutionarycarey (nickythepage)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Printshop Enjolras, minor injuries/police brutality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickythepage/pseuds/revolutionarycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Jehan aren't quite friends yet, but Courfeyrac is working on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fellows In The Firmament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pelides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelides/gifts).



June, 1828

The stars were peeking through the corner window opposite Enjolras and Combeferre’s table in the upstairs room of the Musain. Any sort of group discussion had long since dissolved, and with the appearance of the stars had come a welcome end to an unusually hot day. Even now, Bossuet’s head was shining a little more than was ordinary (Joly was giggling at its resemblance to the gold top of his cane), and Feuilly, who had worked all day in a room without windows, still seemed pale. Enjolras watched with tired affection as Courfeyrac subtly placed a cup of water before Feuilly. It had been a long day, and a long week of carefully negotiating with someone who claimed to be the leader of another republican group in the city. Enjolras could play the game of anonymity and caution well, but it drained him more than long hours of setting type and certainly more than speaking openly about his beliefs. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. While he could sleep as soon as he got home tonight, tomorrow he would have some sensitive printing to do after hours and there was no one else who worked in the shop that he trusted enough to assist him…

When he opened his eyes, Jean Prouvaire was standing in front of him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

He then noticed Enjolras looking at him, turned pink, and ducked his head. Enjolras smiled softly, bemused. Prouvaire was relatively new to their group, but he suspected that if he’d been there for years he still wouldn’t quite understand the man who stood before him in what could really only be described as a doublet.

Prouvaire apparently decided to plunge ahead, and said, ”Good evening, Enjolras," for the second time that night. 

Enjolras inclined his head. "Good evening, Prouvaire." And then, taking pity on the rapidly pinkening man before him, "did you wish to speak to me about something?"

"I, ah- well, yes, you see, I wanted to talk to you about something I've been reading- and um- well- I know you’re quite busy with work and, and all the, um, necessary activities you do outside of work, but if it isn’t an inconvenience I — well—“

"Prouvaire, are you all right?" interjected Enjolras, just as Prouvaire said in one rushing breath, 

“Ishouldliketogettoknowyoubetter.” 

The two stared at each other in surprise for a moment. Enjolras was trying to formulate a response and Prouvaire was looking more and more like he had just dropped type everywhere when Courfeyrac, as was his wont, suddenly materialized behind Enjolras and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. Enjolras, I am dreadfully sorry, but I will be unable to assist you in your shop tomorrow evening. I have an engagement I rather forgot about, but — Jehan! Good fellow, would you be able to do me the favor of assisting Enjolras in his shop tomorrow? I would be in your debt.”

Prouvaire looked to Enjolras, hope in his eyes.

“I would love to — that is, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Courfeyrac’s grip on Enjolras’ shoulder tightened. 

“If you wish to come, I would certainly value your assistance. Do you know where the shop is?” 

Prouvaire nodded with enough enthusiasm that Enjolras spared a thought of concern for the structural integrity of his neck. “I will be there tomorrow at nine. You should know it will likely take all night.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll be there! Good night Enjolras, Courfeyrac,” and he turned back to the table where Grantaire and Bahorel were braying with laughter, a slight skip in his step.

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac into Enjolras’ ear, “the innocence of the new students always warms my heart. Will they keep their joie de vivre as they progress through academia? Or will its hallowed halls crush their spirits?”

“Courfeyrac,” said Enjolras through gritted teeth, “you know full well I never asked for your assistance tomorrow night-“

“Of course you didn’t! But you shall have assistance all the same. I shudder to think of you working alone in an empty shop all night, with no one to hear you espousing the virtues of the republic.“

“But I barely know the man!” said Enjolras, more plaintive this time. “And you know I don’t make light conversation well -“

“That’s of no concern, Jehan doesn’t either.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?”

“Oh, cheer up,” Courfeyrac ruffled Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras responded with a noise not unlike a meow. “You already admire him and trust him with your life, or he wouldn’t be here. Why not get to know the man as well as you know the rest of us? I’m sure you’ll find him wonderful. I don’t think anything could crush his spirit.”

“Not even academia?” grumbled Enjolras.

“Certainly not. He lives for books.” Enjolras continued to glower at him. “Oh for heaven’s sake, if all else fails, just discuss the sad, outdated style of hair you both favor - you’ll at least have that in common.” and with that, he gave a tug to Enjolras’ ponytail and walked back towards the rest of the gathering. 

—————

By the time Prouvaire reached the Enjolras print shop the next evening, Enjolras was ready to go, with an apron and paper hat for them both. Prouvaire took his hat into his hands with the reverence of a man handling an ancient relic.

“Thank you very much for making me one.” He set it carefully on his head, and regarded the presses, quiescent for the moment, with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “They look almost sinister in the shadows.” 

“Yes, well.” Enjolras did not know how to respond to that. “We’ll actually be starting over here.” 

He led Prouvaire to the cases of type lined against the wall, and the spot he’d lit with candles. He selected his composing stick. “Here’s the type, now if you could just read this draft of the pamphlet out loud to me, rather slowly-“

“This is the type?” And Prouvaire was gasping over the collections of tiny letters. He plucked a lowercase t out and squinted at it, cradling it between his fingers. “I forget how small they must be! Do you ever imagine that at night, when you’re not here of course, they become alive, and form words and sentences among themselves? They can communicate with the type on the other side of the room - I wonder if the two sides have cultural differences -“ he stopped. Enjolras was staring. “Ah, I suppose not.” He went to replace the t, and nearly put it back in the wrong compartment. Enjolras rescued it at the last moment. “I apologize.”

“No need. Now as I was saying, if you could just read this.”

—————

Many hours later, Enjolras had finished setting type and was prepared to begin printing. Dawn was in a few hours, and with it work in the shop would begin, so Enjolras moved quickly and kept his eyelids open through sheer willpower. Jehan sat near the press Enjolras was using, keeping them both awake with a meandering monologue. He had recently given up on finding a more dignified name for the ink balls, and was now waxing rhapsodic on William Shakespeare. 

“Much of his language and meter is lost in translation, of course, and I am not yet able to read English as well as I would like — nevertheless, the language is like the old epics, or a lewd song. It begs to be spoken out loud! I have been reading Julius Caesar, and I must confess it made me think of you.”

A small smile played on Enjolras’ lips. “Not as Caesar, I hope?” 

Jehan laughed. “You? Caesar? Never. Although actually I think you would play Mark Antony well- he is loyal to Caesar, and he knows how to fan the flames of the people. But I think of you for Brutus. He is loyal to his principles and his people. Well, except for Caesar. But he acts for the needs of the many rather than the needs of the few, and some see him as a villain. I have sympathy for him.” He paused. “He dies, of course. He runs onto his sword to escape being captured alive. And in his death even Mark Antony mourns him. Some men are so good that their death is a loss to everyone, even their foes.” Enjolras paused, one hand on the lever. Prouvaire’s expression grew fierce as he gazed at the forms of the presses around them. “You are all so good. All of you.”

—————

Enjolras set about cleaning the type. He would be standing at the counter replacing it when the other journeymen and apprentices filed in for the morning. He wished they’d had time to print more copies, but what they had drying upstairs in his room was sufficient. He paused to hang up Prouvaire’s apron. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Prouvaire. Your conversation made the night much less arduous.”

Prouvaire’s cheeks pinkened to match the dawn sky. “Of course. But please, if you would, call me Jehan?” 

“Jehan. I can take your hat for you, if you do not-“

“Oh, no!” He held his paper cap, looking shocked. “I will keep it! I will wear it when I am writing, and it will give the words in my mind someplace to land.” Enjolras took in the man in front of him just as he yawned, and felt something inside him soften. 

“Jehan. I would certainly not ask this of you after tonight, but if you wanted…I will be here again Saturday evening.”

Jehan beamed.

—————

After four hours of sewing pages Saturday night, Enjolras and Jehan cleaned the shop and prepared to bring some of the fruits of their labor to the safety of Courfeyrac’s flat, to pass onto the amis for distribution. Courfeyrac, fresh from a night flitting between cafes and social gatherings, had stopped by under the guise of assisting the transport, although Enjolras suspected he had really just been looking for friends to toss jibes at. He was sporting a slight limp from a twisted ankle he’d acquired tripping on the stairs to Combeferre’s rooms (“How can a man be brought so low by the very structures meant to raise him? You can answer that, Enjolras, it seems like your kind of question”). They filed out, Courfeyrac with his good humor, Jehan with his well-worn copy of Julius Caesar, and Enjolras with the bag of seditious material. They were halfway up the street when:

“Stop!” A voice rang out behind them. Enjolras whipped around and there, illuminated by the moon, were the silhouettes of three policemen. In an instant, his mind was racing. Did they know about the pamphlets? Did they think they were thieves? It didn’t matter why they were stopping them — if they got caught with the contents of that bag…

They ran, splashing through the pools of moonlight on the cobblestones. Enjolras’ breathing was ragged in his ears, and yet no matter how many alleys they turned down, no matter how many times they doubled back, he could hear the police not far behind them. He clutched the bag to his chest even as it burned with exertion. 

Footsteps pounded in his ears, and then Courfeyrac fell. Jehan skidded to a halt beside him, and Courfeyrac sat up instantly, cradling his ankle.

“Goddamnit, damn this ankle, damn it, damn it-“

The footsteps were close now. Soon they would be close enough to see their faces, and then-

“Can you run?” He whispered hurriedly to Courfeyrac, who was getting to his feet. Light fell in pieces against his tight jaw and Jehan’s terrified face. 

“I can, but - ow - not fast, I’ll slow you down, you two should go-“

“We are not going to leave you here.”

“Please, they’re almost on us-“

And then Jehan, pale and grim,was running down the alley in the direction of the shouts. 

“Jehan!” yelled Courfeyrac, and tried to stumble after. Enjolras grabbed him by the shoulders just as Jehan turned a corner. The shouts stopped for a moment, and then began anew. Enjolras slung Courfeyrac’s arm over his shoulder and pulled him along. 

“But- Jehan-“ 

“He’s buying us time. We have to get to your rooms.”

“They’re going to arrest him -“

“Yes, but they saw three of us, and his distraction won’t last long-“ and then a high noise lanced through the air, a scream that was trying to be a yell. Enjolras felt cold. “We have to go.”

Courfeyrac slowly regained the ability to put weight on his ankle, and they ran again, even though they could no longer hear anyone in pursuit. When they got to his rooms they collapsed in on the sofa, chests heaving.

“I don’t - they’ll hurt him - I don’t know what they’ll try him for - he didn’t have anything on him did he?”

“I do not think so.” Where Courfeyrac sobbed, Enjolras’ voice was tight as a bowstring. “Nevertheless, we should not leave here tonight. We can alert the others in the morning, and see what may be done.”

The two sat in silence for a while before stripping themselves of coats, waistcoats, and cravats and climbing onto Courfeyrac’s bed. Enjolras dimly thanked the heavens that the Bonapartist roommate was not present. He listened to Courfeyrac’s breathing as it slowed, trying not to imagine Prouvaire, alone and afraid. Eventually he slept.

—————

They were woken by knocking at the door. Enjolras shot awake, ready to run if need be, and then registered a child’s voice crying “Monsieur Courfeyrac! Monsieur Courfeyrac!” He prodded the grumbling form beside him (“there’s a message for you”), and went to answer, squinting at the sky through a window. It was midmorning. At the door was a small boy with enormous green eyes and a critical air.

“You don’t look like Monsieur Courfeyrac.” Enjolras blinked. The boy crossed his arms and stared up at him. “I was told to deliver this message to a stout man with curly black hair —“

“Who called me stout,” muttered Courfeyrac, curls askew, eyeing the boy blearily.

“Monsieur Bahorel has a message for you, sir.”

“Ah, it would be him. What’s the message?” said Courfeyrac, and then, clocking the boy’s still-suspicious gaze, “I assure you Monsieur Blond here is trustworthy.” 

“Monsieur Bahorel says that your valiant knight has returned, and is awaiting the attentions of your friends from the medical school. He requests your presence at his rooms immediately.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac looked at each other with wide eyes. Jehan, released so soon? This was better than they could have hoped, and yet, he was injured? Enjolras felt last night’s fear curdling in his stomach. How often had he heard stories of officers of the law injuring or even killing those they had arrested? He barely registered as Courfeyrac gave the boy a coin and sent him on his way, and the breeze that whipped his cheeks as they half-walked, half-ran to Bahorel’s rooms seemed distant as a caress. Jehan was a man, surely, and could make his own choices and sacrifices, as could any of their friends. That knowledge was cold comfort now.

—————

Bahorel’s door, per usual, was left unlocked; Enjolras and Courfeyrac burst in in a flurry of breath and wind that stilled to relief at the sight of Jehan on the sofa, looking dazed but whole. The only sign of injury he bore was a shiny purple and red bruise across one cheekbone.

“Jehan.” And Courfeyrac was upon the slender figure, squeezing him until Bahorel pulled him away.

“Be gentle, man, he’s been bruised and battered -“

“I’m fine!” protested Jehan, and Enjolras, feeling his fear harden into ferrous rage, asked, “How badly?”

“Not badly at all, the bruise on my face is the worst one I have-“

“Perhaps!” replied Bahorel with an air of exasperation, “but I suspect you are concussed as well, as dazed and dizzy as you are -“

“Oh yes, you did say that.” And Prouvaire smiled dreamily. “Perhaps I shall languish here for days then, with doctors tending to me. You’ll have to bring me my nourishment, Bahorel, and take down my tragic thoughts by dictation, since I shall be unable to write.”

“Of course.” sighed Bahorel, “Anything for you, my invalid.”

Enjolras began to pace the room, fighting the tightness in his chest.

“Prou - Jehan. Courfeyrac and I owe you a great debt, as does our cause. Your risk has saved perhaps more people than we know.”  
“But how are you here?” Courfeyrac interrupted, “how did you escape so quickly? Are you a fugitive?” Prouvaire laughed.

“Certainly not. I merely convinced them to let me go.” 

Enjolras stopped in his tracks. “You what?”

“How?” Courfeyrac was incredulous.

“I told them I was new to Paris, and had run into them while I was lost. They never saw our faces, they couldn’t prove I was with you two, and I came at them from a different direction. I had books on me, and a letter from my mother inquiring how I was settling into the city.”

“And they believed you?” Enjolras thought that either these were particularly gullible policemen, or Jehan was a better actor than he gave him credit for.

“Well, not at first. Hence the bruises.” He felt his cheek and winced. “But I was persistent, and I had nothing suspicious on my person, and I can play the part of confused and scared boy very well.” He said all this with lightness. Enjolras’ jaw fell. 

“And still they beat you? They - you - you hit your head -“

“Yes. They slammed it rather forcefully into a wall.” Jehan felt along the back of his skull and frowned. Bahorel twisted his mouth into a grim line. Courfeyrac looked sick. “But I have discovered through previous experimentation that skulls are remarkably durable. Besides, when the officers who arrested me brought in their superior, he heard my story, told them off for wasting his time, and let me go with directions back to the Latin Quarter. All in all, I would say it went rather well.” He frowned again. “Though my head does hurt.” 

Enjolras stared for a moment before replying.

“Well. Jehan, perhaps it would be best if you kept out of sight for the next few days.”

“I agree, and you shall!” proclaimed Bahorel, and there was a knock at the door, “and that must be our friends the doctors, here to reinforce my opinion.”

Indeed it was, and Enjolras and Courfeyrac excused themselves soon after Combeferre and Joly began their examination of an increasingly sleepy Prouvaire.

“I’m not sure whether to call this luck, a miracle, or a credit to dramatic genius,” said Courfeyrac before the two parted ways, he back to his rooms and Enjolras back to the printing offices.

“I suspect we have all three to thank,” replied Enjolras. His relief at Prouvaire’s safety had not completely dispelled the fear and rage in his gut, or the fluttery, too-fast beating of his heart. 

—————

Enjolras was content, watching through tired eyes as the candlelight illuminated his friends in motion. Combeferre and Courfeyrac leaned on each other in a corner, egging on Bahorel and Bossuet in their game of cards, while Feuilly, Joly, and Grantaire talked excitedly on the topic on ancient medicine. Prouvaire sat next to him, throwing tidbits of Greek to Grantaire every once in a while and otherwise observing.

“You were worried for me,” he said after a while, quietly. Enjolras turned sharply.

“Of course I was. We all were. I didn’t know -“

“I knew it might not work, what I did. I don’t want you to think that I went into it naively, or stupidly, or without knowing how it could end for me -“ 

“It would have ended so for all of us, had you not done what you did,” said Enjolras simply.

“It is strange, is it not, when the bonds of friendship are such that the sacrifice of one’s friends seems greater than the sacrifice of oneself?” 

He paused. Enjolras said nothing.

“Many men fancy that they would gladly lay down their lives for their family, their children, their lovers. Or their friends. I would say that the lucky ones never have to find out whether they would keep that promise when the time comes. But I think that I am lucky.” he laughed, softly. “Heroes have given their lives for the people, writ large or small. I want to be like them.” He fixed his gaze then on Enjolras, and his eyes were not without sadness. “You are like them.”  
Heat spread through Enjolras’ chest and he felt his throat tighten. He fixed his eyes forward, and watched through the window as the moon rose.

When next he looked over, Jehan was watching with admiration as Combeferre gesticulated enthusiastically to Courfeyrac. When he met Enjolras’ eyes, he blushed.  
Enjolras smiled as something clicked inside his mind.

“You should go talk to him,” he said, placing a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. Combeferre is one of the kindest men I know.”


End file.
